Lavender
by PlayerPiano
Summary: A summer day, with lavender still blooming. Victor is a new widower, and still adjusting as best he can to life without Victoria.


**Lavender**

Of anyone in the village, he was the one who should know how to cope with death.

He'd lived long enough to weather more than one loss. His mother and father, his in-laws, all four of them gone nearly thirty years now. Two sons-in-law, gone. Gone, too, a grandson he'd never even met. He had walked in the Land of the Dead. He knew what waited. He'd affectionately held the hand of death.

Death was not sad. It was not frightening. It was an inevitable fact of life.

Surviving was sad. Surviving was frightening. He'd lived long enough to realize that, too.

Today, a sunny day in mid-August, Victor Van Dort sat in his rocking chair on the porch, waiting for his grandson to arrive. Warm today. Nearly uncomfortably so, for a town that was normally on the chilly side. Gently he rocked to and fro, his hands folded on his rather paunchy middle. With age, such things were bound to happen. Paunches, white hair, baldness. Spectacles. Achy feet.

The warm was good for his bones, which were beginning to feel the strain of eighty years of carrying him about. From the porch he had a nice view down the drive to the road. An actual road, now, not just a path over the bridge and through the forest. Around the property was a relatively new iron fence. Not so high to be imposing, but high enough to lay claim to his lawn. Once his and Victoria's house had been the only one here. Now there were modest-sized houses on either side. The old church, where the dead had gathered not so very many years ago, was gone. Air-raid mistake, or so they said. The cemetery still remained, of course. It was bigger now than ever, fenced in just as Victor's house was. Just as the old village was walled in. Victor had lived long enough, and the town had changed enough, for that to be its actual name. The Old Village.

Relics. Everything old was walled up here. He'd never really noticed that before.

At his feet lay his little Scottish terrier, Lorna. Victoria had given him the dog as an anniversary gift eight years before. She knew how he missed having a dog all those years of children and cats. High time for a new pet, she'd felt, once the last cat was long gone and the last child well-flown. Victor _had _missed a dog. He'd not realized the lack until he finally had one again.

And now Lorna was the second heartbeat of the house. A lot of responsibility to be laid on such tiny shoulders. In the morning when he woke, she was waiting at the door. Throughout the day she was at his side. And at night, at the foot of his bed. The simple comfort of another soul was another blessing he hadn't really noticed, until it wasn't there any longer. Visitors came and went (Victor rarely spent a day without seeing at least one of his progeny, and visits had doubled in the last month), but it wasn't the same as a constant presence. And even then, Lorna wasn't quite the right shape to fill the hole in his life. Not completely.

"But you're a good girl all the same, isn't that right?" he finished aloud to Lorna, and reached to scratch her ears. Her little tail wagged.

Then came the sound of an engine, of wheels on the gravel of the drive. Victor sat up in his rocker, and slowly, carefully got to his feet as Billy's truck pulled to a stop in front of the house. Billy was one of Victor's daughter Anne's small army of sons, the second youngest of five. Or the youngest. Victor could never quite remember. At any rate he was in his mid-twenties and took after his father, average-sized and fair with a narrow chin. Billy had inherited a talent for gardening from Victoria, however, and now made his living at it.

"Hullo, Grandad," said Billy, trotting up the porch steps and shaking Victor's hand. Then his friendly grin faltered, and Victor winced internally. He knew what was coming. Particularly when that studied, careful sad look came into Billy's eyes. Billy put a hand on his forearm and said, "How are you? Everything all right?"

It wasn't as though Victor could tell the truth. That no, everything was wrong and would never be all right as long as he lived. So instead he smiled wanly and said that he was fine, thank you.

"Thank you for coming by," Victor went on. With a slightly shaking arm, he gestured to the lavender bushes which grew under the parlor's bay window, to the right of the porch. "I'd like you to take away these bushes, if you would."

Again, that look, only deeper this time. "Are you sure?" Billy asked, looking at Victor carefully. "Nana loved those. They were her favorites."

"I'm sure," Victor said, holding up a hand. "Thank you. Make cuttings, if you like, give them to your mother. Or your aunt...I don't know. Just...away from here, please."

"Okay," said Billy, still dubious. "Hey, would you like some cuttings, too? Nana always had everything smelling like lavender, maybe you'd like to-"

"No, thank you," Victor interrupted, his voice firm, for which he was grateful. He would have hated a mutinous shakiness to give away what was going on in his heart.

"Okay," Billy said again. On his way down the steps and over to inspect the bushes, he added, "I'll take care of it, Grandad. I'll be careful, so they can be replanted. You know...just in case."

"Do come in for a rest when you're finished, if you like," was all Victor said. Without a backward glance he whistled softly to Lorna, and the two of them went into the cool of the house.

0—0

From the entry came the jingling of keys, the opening and shutting of the door. Victor sat in the parlor, his armchair facing the bay window. From here he had a nice view of the garden. And beyond that, the cemetery. It was early evening, and the shadows were long. Victor had not yet bothered to turn on any lights. He'd opened the side windows to catch the scent of the garden.

"Father?" came his daughter Lydia's voice. He looked up when she came into the room. Ever since she'd taken to wearing slacks, she'd looked even more like him. Lydia had aged more gracefully than he had. Fewer lines, though she'd become thinner than was probably good for her. She worked far too hard, a problem Victor had never had. And she still had her hair, streaked with gray and worn up in a sensible bun.

"Mother's lavender bushes are gone!" she said, heading right for the window. She knelt on the window seat and peered out. "Completely gone!"

"I know," Victor replied. In her basket near the fireplace, Lorna snuffled in her sleep. "I had Billy come by."

"Mother loved those," said Lydia quietly, turning to him. For a long while she regarded him closely. There was discomfort, sadness, in her eyes behind those little spectacles of hers. When Victor didn't reply, Lydia pulled the curtains. A breeze from the still open side windows fluttered them.

"It will be odd, not having that lavender smell waft into the house all the time," she remarked as she pulled her cigarette case from her pocket. With the ease of years of practice Lydia tucked a cigarette into the corner of her mouth and talked around it. "Mother said she planted them there just for that reason. She did love that smell."

"Not in the house, please, if you don't mind," Victor said politely around the lump which had risen in his throat. Lydia paused, midway through reaching for her Zippo.

"Sorry," she said, removing the cigarette from her mouth. "Long day at the cannery today. I wasn't thinking. I'll go down to the garden. Care to come with me?"

"I'm all right here," he replied. Lorna shifted in her basket and let out a soft yip. Lydia nodded.

"Be back soon," she said. On her way out she put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Then, to his surprise, she bent and kissed his cheek. In her wake she left the mingled scent of Chantilly and tobacco smoke and the slightest whiff of fish. Lydia had been more affectionate during the past month than she had in a long time. Victor, while pleased, was still adjusting.

Alone again save for Lorna, Victor sat in his armchair watching the curtains flutter and listening to the queer mix of birdsong and traffic from the open window. He sat without moving, thinking, until it was dark enough for him to lean over and flip on the table lamp.

0—0

"You needn't stay with me all the time," Victor said over dinner that evening. Something casseroled from canned salmon. Lydia had made it, as it was the day-woman's day off. Victor missed Alice, their old maid. She'd had a taste of the lady's maid's life, thanks to Lydia, and had never looked back. He wondered where she was now.

"I like to stay with you, it's no bother," Lydia assured him. Then her tone grew more somber. "It's no good, just rattling about in an old place, all by yourself."

They went quiet, both of them picking at their food now. Two old widowed people. It was an odd experience to have in common with one's child. Victor thought of Mary. She was in the club, too, of course, though she was a member _in absentia_. Poor little Mary. Lydia took a long sip of her second glass of wine of the evening.

"Is Mary planning to come at all?" he asked. Only now did he realize that it was strange that he'd not even _spoken _to her afterward. Lydia had taken care of things. Things like telephoning people. He assumed she had telephoned Mary, just as she had telephoned Catherine. Catherine had come to the funeral. Mary had not. "I hadn't heard. Did she...did she write?"

Lydia seemed snapped out of a reverie by his question. She took another swallow before she answered, "No. Had to leave a message. Never heard back."

"Not a thing?" Victor poked at his dry salmon with his fork. What little appetite he'd had was gone.

Lydia drained her glass. Pouring herself another, she said, "No."

There was another long silence. Victor could practically feel the wrath emanating from his oldest daughter. For his part, Victor couldn't work up enough gumption for wrath. Just sadness. And an emptiness. He was keenly aware of the Mary-shaped hole in his life, in all of their lives, too.

The telephone in the entry rang, shrill and loud. Lydia got up to answer it. Victor sat alone at the dining room table. The light from the electric chandelier was too bright for eating by, he'd always thought. The table was spare, utilitarian. The table Lydia laid. Not that he wasn't grateful. She'd been with him every evening for a month. His own face, more or less, looking at him from across the way, comforting in her steadfastness and familiarity. Without her there to look at he was staring at the sideboard, the old brides basket set there on a large doily for decoration.

He didn't sit at his old spot at the head of the table now. Staring at the table's opposite end made him think too much about the woman who should have been sitting there. Besides, he didn't feel he was the head of anything anymore. Victor picked up a morsel of salmon from his plate and held it down for Lorna.

There were footsteps behind him, then the dull clang of a complaining rotary telephone being carried. He turned as much as he could in his chair. Lydia stood in the dining room doorway, the telephone base in one hand, the cord stretched taut from the telephone table in the hall.

"Speak of the devil," Lydia said, holding out the receiver to Victor. "It's for you."

0—0

Victor eased open the front door, Lorna at his heels. It was full dark now. Though nowadays it never really got as full dark as it used to. Streetlights. Dim lights from the houses next door. Headlights, more of those all the time. Lydia sat on the top step, her long legs stretched in front of her, back braced against the side of the porch railing. She was smoking.

"How is she?" asked Lydia, holding her cigarette well out of the way as Lorna trotted over to her and sat beside her. Lydia scratched the little dog under the chin. Victor eased himself into his rocking chair.

"Very sorry she wasn't here," he told her. That had been the gist of the conversation. Victor had just been thrilled to hear his youngest daughter's voice, no matter how poor the connection from New York. Mary was busy, Mary was so terribly sorry she hadn't called or written sooner, Mary's husband was away on business, Mary was so sorry about Mom, Mary's daughter had just had a baby.

"You have a new great-nephew," Victor said when he reached that point in his inner recitation. Lydia glanced at him, then stubbed out her cigarette with more violence than necessary.

"Nice of her to tell us," she said, pulling her hand away from a hurt-looking Lorna. The dog went to sit by Victor's chair instead. "I take it that's why she didn't come?"

Victor nodded, slowly. "That's what she told me," he said heavily. He caught Lydia's eye. "She lives a very long way from here. Mary _is _sorry, Liddie. I'm not angry. Mother wouldn't be. Nor should you be."

Lydia simply looked away and lit another cigarette. Victor sighed and rocked. He'd tried. At least he'd finally spoken to Mary. Poor Mary. But a new baby. What good news. Victoria would have been thrilled. Most likely sent a present. Victor should send a present.

"Mother _wouldn't_ be angry, would she?" Lydia said finally, punctuating her words with a cloud of smoke. "Mother wasn't like that." Lydia, sad-eyed, leaned her head against the railing and looked off into the middle distance.

Victor didn't respond. He was afraid his voice wouldn't hold.

0—0

As she had every night for the past month, Lydia asked if he'd like her to stay the night. As he had every night for the past month, Victor replied that he was quite all right, thank you all the same. And as she always did, Lydia said that she really didn't mind, he shouldn't be alone, she could easily take Catherine's old room.

Tonight, Victor relented. For his own sake as much as hers.

Time was when this place was always full. First him and Victoria, bursting with the promise of new life. Then four daughters. Then four daughters and sons-in-law. Then grandchildren. Then great-grandchildren. Last him and Victoria again, content and with visitors to spare. Now, the old house was far too empty. Darker, somehow, as though the light and color had gone out of it. Everything seemed drab, lifeless.

Far too much like life before Victoria.

He bid Lydia goodnight fairly early, leaving her in his study going over paperwork for the next day at work. She'd got up, and she'd given him a hug. He'd held on a bit longer than he meant to. He took more comfort than he ever had in affection from his daughters, now. Lydia didn't seem to mind. She said she would see him in the morning. To let her know if he needed anything. Anything at all.

As he made his slow, careful way up the staircase, Victor reflected upon this sudden role reversal. So odd, to be treated as if he were a child. Or made of delicate glass. As if without his steady base, he might topple. Shatter.

Perhaps, Victor thought, his heart twisting, that wasn't such a silly thing for his loved ones to suppose.

Victor had moved into his own bedroom, the one that he'd used primarily as a dressing room for the past sixty years. Slowly he prepared for sleep, donning his nightshirt and turning down the covers on the bed he was still getting used to. Last of all, he made his way across the room to his bureau.

With hands that shook from age or emotion or both, he pulled open the top drawer. From the far corner, he took a sachet made of blue satin, edged round with handmade lace. It was the last one Victoria had made. Slowly, achingly, he closed his eyes as he held it to his nose.

The sachet was filled with lavender.

Carefully, slowly, Victor eased himself into bed. On the right side, as always, out of long habit. Before turning off the lamp he slipped the sachet under his pillow.

_Wait for me, Victoria_, was his last thought as he slipped into sleep. _Please don't pass on before I get there_.

**0-0 The End 0-0**

**Author's Note:**

I'm working through my backlog as I puzzle out my next step in my ongoing story. I found the first draft of this, which consisted only of the paragraph of Victor going to sleep with the last sachet Victoria had made before she died. What can I say, I miss working with Victor. I wanted to see how he might deal with fresh grief, and this is what I came up with.


End file.
